


That is a Very Funny Title

by Bandtalia Tho (littleblacknotebook)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblacknotebook/pseuds/Bandtalia%20Tho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A regular school band rehearses, travels, and performs. Prepare for amateur dramatics, Stephen Reineke, and a mountain of bunnies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That is a Very Funny Title

**Author's Note:**

> A message from Britten on behalf of Britten and Franck – the lovely authors: 
> 
> Hey there Hetalia fans who decided this gem of a fic was worth their time! Myself and my partner in crime request you read this fun little snippet of text before you proceed to the story – you don’t have to, of course, but it would be very much appreciated! Plus, if you don’t, and you send us angry reviews about some of the remarks made – we will give literally zero shits, because you clearly didn’t read the disclaimer! But sod it! To the prologue to the epilogue at the beginning! 
> 
> Some of the things within this ‘piece of art’ could be considered risqué, and we completely acknowledge that this s a thing. We’ve tried (and are trying) really hard not to stray beyond the level of political incorrectness displayed in the canon material. 
> 
> You should remember that we’re going to be offensive as hell – and we’re going to do it in the most canon way possible! And, shit, if you think you can stop us – just…lol u tried. 
> 
> A considerable amount of content within this fic is also based off shit we hear in real life. “That is a Very Funny Title” (the title of this piece) for instance, is taken straight off an arrangement I wrote for my music teacher called ‘Mary had a Little Medieval Lamb who liked to Drone A Lot: A duet for two pianos who aren’t very good’. “Good artists don’t borrow; they steal.” We’re simply stealing from real life. (The joys of being in a school band + orchestra with Franck.) 
> 
> Once again, sorry not sorry if we offend you; we’re parodying this shit. 
> 
> Kisses to everyone, unless you’re contagious! 
> 
> Keep it real!

\--------------------------  
“That is a Very Funny Title”  
\-------------------------------  
Chapter One: The Epilogue at the Beginning Part I

The first thing Lovino saw when he closed his locker after final bell was an obnoxiously familiar and even more obnoxiously cheerful face.

“…What the hell are you grinning about?”

“ Don’t tell me you forgot!” Antonio gasped a little too dramatically. “Today’s the first practice of the year!” 

Ah, crap. “That was today? I must have forgot-“ 

“¡Si! How could you have forgotten? You promised you’d join the school band this year!” 

“Yeah, about that, I was secretly hoping you wouldn’t remember-“ 

Antonio laughed and the remaining few students in the hallway turned suspiciously. “Lovino, you’re hilarious! How could I forget something like that?” 

Lovino rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just go.” 

Antonio whooped and grabbed Lovino by the wrist, dragging him down the hall. “It’s gonna be so much fun, you’ll see! Everyone’s gonna be there. Gilbert and Francis and Alfred –“ 

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

\---

It took Lovino a moment to realize the euphonium occupying the chair beside him had no owner, unlike the vast majority of the brass instruments surrounding him. 

“Hey Antonio…whose-“ 

“It’s mine!” A voice piped up; it sounded far too young to belong to a highschooler. 

Lovino blinked. “Who said that?” 

“I did! I’m right in front of you!” The voice huffed. 

Antonio gasped. “Oh my God, you’re inside the tuba?!” 

“Please tell me you’re not that moronic.” Lovino was pretty sure voices that high didn’t usually use words like ‘moronic’. 

But before he could comment on it, the euphonium moved and a pipsqueakian figure emerged. 

“Names Peter Kirkland!” The boy exclaimed as he stuck out his hand and smiled expectantly. Lovino only stared at it; Antonio took it upon himself to reach across Lovino to shake the boys hand with as much enthusiasm as a baby elephant confronted with a bag of peanuts. “I’m Antonio Fernandez Carriedo!” 

Apprehension lit up in Peter’s eyes. “You’re Antonio? I’ve heard lots about you!” 

He grinned. “Really? Ah, so my reputation is growing?”

“Well, my brother, Arthur says-“ 

“Don’t listen to anything Arthur says.” Antonio was back in his seat before Lovino had time to open his mouth to laugh in his face. 

Peter looked around at the students setting up and finding their respective seats. “There sure are a lot of people!” 

“Yeah, and half of them could probably eat you,” Lovino pointed out, jerking his thumb towards the front of the room just as Mathias Køhler jumped over his chair and tackled a very disgruntled Swede. “Watch out for the Seniors.” 

“Sure!” Peter nodded enthusiastically, then frowned. “So…who am I watching out for?” 

Antonio grinned. “We can help you with that, yes we can!” 

He turned to the back of the room, where two students were rummaging through the percssion shelves. “You obviously know Arthur, since he’s your brother-” Antonio pointed to one of the two students, who was now tuning one of the timpani as solemnly as possible. “The other guy, the one that looks scarier without even trying? That’s Ludwig. He’s the directors kid.” 

As if having heard his name, the other student looked up from his organizing of the mallets. 

Lovino snorted. “More like the directors golden boy. He never does anything wrong.” 

“Heh, that’s his brothers job!” Antonio laughed. “Wait, where is Gilbert anywa-” 

“No. Fucking. Way.” 

Ludwig rolled his eyes but did not turn. A silver-haired individual popped up from behind the mallet instruments, holding something triumphantly in one hand. 

“A vibra-slap! Oi, Ludwig, did you know we have a vibraslap here?!” He made a point of hitting the thing in his hand, it buzzed loudly in response, much to the annoyance of his brother. 

“That’s very nice, Gilbert,” Ludwig replied in a tone that suggested it was not nice at all. “Why don’t you make yourself useful for just one practice-” 

“Antonio!” Gilbert practically bounced over the xylophone, leaning over the timpani (much to Arthur’s displeasure). 

“You made it!” Pale red eyes flickered to Peter and Lovino. “And you brought friends!” 

“I’m Peter!” Peter practically shouted. 

“No,” said Lovino. 

Gilbert grinned. “Whatever. I already know you – Francis!” Throwing himself off the timani rather impressively, Gilbert grabbed a drumstick and proceeded to throw it across the room. Lovino and Peter both opened their mouths to call out a warning, but a hand shot out to pluck it from midair. The hand belonged to a smirking blonde who held a piccolo in his hand not occupied by flying debris. 

“That,” Francis called, “was a pathetic excuse for a throw, Beilschmidt.” 

Antonio laughed and waved frantically at his friend. Lovino snorted and leaned in towards Peter. “If you haven’t guessed yet, Gilbert, Francis and Antonio have been friends before they all actually spoke English.” 

“I see,” Peter thought for a moment. “Oh! I’ve seen him before!” He pointed to Francis making an obscene gesture with the drumstick. “He came to our house sometimes last year and-” 

“Peter, shut your trap,” Arthur snapped without looking up from the drums. 

Lovino glared at him before continuing, “Anyway-” a sideways glance at Antonio, who was now engaged in a rather loud conversation with Gilbert. “They’re usually dicks and annoying as all hell, but they’re some of the best musicians here.” He scanned the room again, across from where the flute players were setting up. “See those really unimpressed looking clarinet players?” 

“Yes.” 

“The one with the douchy aviators is Sadiq.” Lovino pointed to the brunette on the end, easily twice Peter’s hight and putting together a bass clarinet. “He says he’s in grade twelve, but nobody really knows how many years he’s been in grade twelve.” 

“I see.” Peter stared at Sadiq. 

Lovino quickly continued. “The guy in front of him, with the glasses, is Roderich.” His hand moved to the shorter, bespectacled student, who was already set up and going through a handful of sheet music on his stand, “if he looks like an asshole, it’s because he is. But Anotnio says he’s been the band president for two years in a row, so that gives him asshole-ish rights, I guess.” 

A hand reached out and tapped Roderich’s shoulder, and he turned in his chair to address one of the few girls in the room. “That’s Liz. Her and Roderich dated for awhile, and everyone thought she was gonna be band VP, but that went to Ludwig.” Lovino snorted again. “She totally holds it against him. It’s actually kind of fu-”

“Alfred is here and the party can begin!” 

Lovino and Peter turned in the direction of the noise. A tall, well built boy clutching a trumpet case in one hand and a take-out bag of McDonalds in the other, had burst into the music room, grinning from ear to ear. 

Arthur finally looked up from the timpani and blanched visibly. 

Antonio turned back from his conversation with Francis. “In case you haven’t guessed,” he said, “that’s Alfred. Second most popular Junior in school, after Ludwig and his harem.” 

An indignant noise and a cackle implied that both Beilschmidt’s had heard the comment. 

Antonio continued, “Alfred is the lead trumpet, and he likes to remind everyone quite a lot.” 

Peter’s face was almost as white as Arthur’s. 

Lovino glanced at the clock: two forty-three. “Practice starts in two minutes, doesn’t it? Where’s Mr. Whatever-the-Fuck?” He paused, and his eyes widened. “Shit, where’s my brother?” 

Peter frowned. “You mean the one beside you?” 

“What are you- UWAH!” Lovino turned in his chair and bit back a string of profanities. “Feliciano – what are you doing here?!” 

Big, amber eyes blinked back at hi innocently, and Feliciano held up a coffee as a peace offering. “I’m here to play music, aren’t you?” His face suddenly lit up. “Ah, you are, of course you are! That’s why you’re here!” 

Lovino resisted the growing urge to bury his face in his hands and took the coffee instead. “Yeah, yeah. I meant how long have you been sitting-”

“This is great!” Feliciano reached under his chair and pulled out a case. “I brought your trombone along with mine just in case! I’m so happy Antonio got you to join! Oh, does that mean he finally-”

“Feliciano,” Ludwig’s voice cut through the Italian’s ramblings. “Calm down.” 

Feliciano stopped, tilting his head back to look at Ludwig upside-down. “Sorry,” he mouthed. Ludwig rolled his eyes and turned back to the snare, muttering something about how horrifically cute his boyfriend could be. 

Then, the door to the music room slammed open and slammed shut just s Lovino opened his trombone case. Everyone seemed to snap to attention: Francis took the drumstick out of his mouth, and Alfred attempted to quietly eat his French fries. All eyes were on the newcomer, who stalked over to the stool at the front of the room and looked over the scores without acknowledging the waiting students. 

Peter leaned over to Antonio, who appeared to be resisting the urge to pluck one of the strings on the double bass beside him. “What’s he doing?” He whispered. 

The man at the stand looked up. Icy blue eyes seemed to glare at everyone in the room simultaneously. All the students in the front row sank a little further into their chairs, except for Roderich, who looked like someone had just told a funny joke at a funeral. 

“Good afternoon,” he said finally, “and thank you for taking time from your precious social lives to participate in this years school band.” A stare in the direction of the saxophone section made Feliks look up from his Blackberry and grin sheepishly. 

Lovino frowned. “He doesn’t sound very grateful.”

“Shh!” 

The man continued. “For those of you who don’t know me yet, my name is Herr Beilschmidt, and I’ve been the band director here for longer than most of you have been alive.” 

A female voice Lovino recognized as Natalya from his biology class piped up from the middle of the room. “But…you’re like, twenty-five.” 

“Can it, Braginski, that’s my dad, you creep,” Gilbert yelled back. “And he’s way older than tha-”

“Gilbert.” 

“Yeah, Dad?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Okay, Dad.” 

Herr Beilschmidt blew a strand of hair from his face and continued. “As I was saying. In this room, you will address me as ‘Herr Beilschmidt’ or ‘Sir’. No American Slang. Not ‘Mister Beilschmidt’, not just ‘Beilschmidt’,” his eyes narrowed. “And definitely not ‘Ludwig’s Dad’.” 

Feliciano reddened and stared into his stand. 

“You are all here because you want to play music,” Herr Beilschmidt said, “thus I expect you to do just that. I do not want to see any excessive socializing, rough-housing, horseplay, or any other unnecessary interruptions of any kind-”

A sudden crash made everyone turn to the back of the room, where a stand had been knocked over and a very fidgety Antonio now stood. 

“Carriedo, what did I just say…” Herr Beilschmidt started. 

“Lovino Vargas!” Antonio practically yelled. “I have an important question to ask you!” 

Gilbert and Francis both stared incredulously as he dropped to one knee, almost hitting two cases and a chair in the process. 

“What,” hissed Lovino, “in the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“Lovino!” Antonio repeated, his voice seamlessly reaching the point between shouting and regular volume, thus making the situation a lot more awkward than it had to be. “Will you do me the honour of being my boyfriend?” 

The silence in the music room made the roaring in Lovino’s ears even louder by contrast. 

Herr Beilschmidt was the one to speak. “Carriedo. Sit. Down.” 

Antonio blinked and obliged, running a hand through his hair uncomfortably. Lovino was too busy trying to subtly shift his chair away from the Spaniard’s to notice Ludwig passing a five-dollar note to a smug looking Feliciano. 

Herr Beilschmidt’s face remained impassive. “While we tune, I need two volunteers to hand out the first piece-”

“Pick me, Beilschmidt!” Alfred jumped up from his chair. 

The director glared at him. “Jones, what did I just-“ 

“Right, right, sorry!” Alfred cleared his throat and tried again. “Pick me, Mister Beilschmidt!” 

“…Fine.” Herr Beilschmidt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Roderich, give him a hand.”

“What, you don’t think he has things under control himself?” 

“Roderich, I swear to God-” 

“Old Testament, or New Testament?” The resounding silence was answer enough. “It was a joke. Tune away.” Roderich got up and grabbed two handfuls of music, passing one to Alfred, who had made his way to the front of the room surprisingly fast. 

One by one the parts were distributed, and the room was soon filled with the sound of students tuning and trying out music notes at random. Lovino grimaced when Roderich dropped the second trombone part on his stand. 

Roderich smirked. “Something wrong, Vargas?” 

Lovino shook his head. 

“There’s no favouritism in this class, contrary to popular belief,” Roderich continued, “we administer the parts based on experience and skill level.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Roderich smirked and rifled through the parts, handing Arthur and Ludwig theirs before making his way back to the front of the classroom. 

Lovino grumbled incomprehensibly into his stand. 

“Cheer up, Lovino!” Feliciano piped up beside him. “Roderich’s only giving you a hard time because you’re new! He’s pretty nice, really!” 

“That’s because he was your baby sitter and he always made you food,” Lovino retorted, raising his head from his stand. 

“Poor boy,” Francis called from his seat; Lovino had to admit his eavesdroppping abilities were impressive. “Still under the illusion that Roderich is more than just a special snowflake who likes to get freaky with his cousin-” 

The rest of his sentence was cut off by a handful of papers thrown at his face, effectively muffling the sting of French curses that followed. 

“Sorry,” Roderich said. “It appears I missed your stand.” 

Francis pried the sheet music from his face. “Roderich, go suck a-”

A tapping noise from the front of the room made him stop mid-profanity. Herr Beilschmidt was seated at his music stand, baton in had. 

The music room grew perfectly still (even Alfred’s second cheeseburger sat untouched by his chair), and the students waited for their band director to begin.


End file.
